She loved his coat.
For all it's impracticality, and for all that she teased about his clothing being ridiculous, she loved his coat like it, too, is just another piece of him - a part of the whole that she fell in love with, like Justice.
She loved the way it looked, clinging to his lanky frame, with buckles and clasps that used to exasperate and confuse her; at how tightly locked away he always kept himself from her, and she loved how quickly her hands learned to set him free.
She loved the way it smelled, the heady, male scent of him wafting so maddeningly close whenever he was around her; the cause of a hundred nights of heartbreak, until the night she could finally wrap herself utterly in him and drown.
She loved the way it felt, fluffy feathers at just the right height to nuzzle against after a long day of zealots and Qunari; the upper portion just the right size for her to wear, in nothing but it, a wicked smile, and her smallclothes - irresistible temptation for him to come to bed, no matter how hard he worked on the manifesto.
He's got a new coat now. Ever since they went to the Chantry, but she hates it.
It looks good on him - better even, for the stark coloration exudes a commanding aura; it smells the same, and the feathers look just as soft as ever, yet she hates how this coat causes him to haunt her home like a overgrown raven, the specter for a funeral - whose she cannot tell. He's locked himself back up again, tighter and more distant than before, and what Hawke hates the most about his new coat is her inability to reach him this time, chained to his cause.
She'd never tell him these things, of course, not when there's so many other things they're not telling each other, and it's precisely because of these other things that she takes comfort where she can.
And if Anders suspects how much she loved his coat, finding her wrapped up in it, the goose-grey feathers matted with drying tears, there's enough discretion left in him - at least where she's concerned as he strips it from her, and makes love to her like it's the last time - that he doesn't comment on it.